


Is That My Shirt?

by opalescentdaydream



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crying Jesse Pinkman, F/M, Jesse Pinkman Protection Squad, M/M, Multi, gender neutral reader, he is sad what can i say.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 19:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentdaydream/pseuds/opalescentdaydream
Summary: You’ve stayed at Jesse’s every night for the last week and a half. He doesn’t mention it either way - asking you to never go home again, please, or to get the fuck out of his kitchen and stop eating all his Cheerios. You take that as your cue not to acknowledge it, either. That’s easy to do when Jesse won’t let himself be still for five minutes.Just a little blurb from a prompt list on tumblr (also posted there, on my sideblog @reid-pinkman)
Relationships: Jesse Pinkman/Reader
Kudos: 2





	Is That My Shirt?

You’ve stayed at Jesse’s every night for the last week and a half. He doesn’t mention it either way - asking you to never go home again, please, or to get the fuck out of his kitchen and stop eating all his Cheerios. You take that as your cue not to acknowledge it, either. That’s easy to do when Jesse won’t let himself be still for five minutes.

There’s always something; Jesse wants you to play this video game with him, and you do, even though it’s mindless and the bloody graphics gross you out. He wants to watch bad, late night TV, which involves a lot of  _ Storage Wars _ and the aggressively bright infomercials that loop at three a.m. He blasts music and has a city block’s worth of strangers over, throwing money at them for pizza and beer when they start to dwindle. The one thing you don’t do is go outside, even if you think the sun would do Jesse a lot of good. He’s gone so far as to  _ smoke _ inside (with a window cracked only at your request).

At this point, you’re afraid to go home. Something nervous worms in your gut and says you shouldn’t leave Jesse by himself, definitely not for more than the few minutes you spend alone on the toilet. Unfortunately, this means you’re running out of clothes. You brought enough t-shirts and underwear for three days tops, and have been recycling them for six more. It’s easy to ignore when there’s thirty strangers piled downstairs and you’re buried somewhere in the bodies, but they finally cleared out. Well, except for the one straggler you found in the upstairs bathtub. You think he’s still in there, but more importantly, pray he’s not dead.

So, when Jesse comes upstairs with a fresh plate of Pizza Rolls, he notices the change.

“Is, uh,” he squints, “is that my shirt?”

You stare back. “Is that...okay?”

Jesse falters. He looks around the room like he’s been plucked from space and time only to be unknowingly dropped in this moment. He can’t seem to put the Pizza Rolls down. Jesse clears his throat, his eyes now glassy. “Yeah that’s...that’s good.”

“You wanna sit?” you ask, that nervous dread choking its way up your spine. You reach for Jesse’s arm. With just your fingertips, you tug him towards the bed. You feel an uncanny kinship with guide dogs as Jesse follows your lead and squats down to the mattress.

Jesse can’t look at you. He’s examining the twelve perfect pouches of tomato sauce, cheese, and grease stained to his paper plate. He says, quiet, more than a little broken, “It’s not really my shirt.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took it from her closet, before they came and got her stuff.” 

“Oh.” Your mouth has run dry and so has your well of answers. You’ve never wished for tragedy so much as you do right now. Why have you never lost anyone so integral? Why has your life been more or less fine, fine enough that you don’t have the right words? You’ve never known how to repair a cracked foundation.

The Pizza Rolls are tossed wayside, lolling about the plate as it slides over the comforter. Jesse’s arms are around your shoulders and his face is stuffed in the crook of your neck. You wonder how many times he fit in this exact square of fabric, before. He leans his weight into your chest until you’ve succumbed to the pillows beneath you. You wrap your arms around him in return, knowing you can’t help him, if nothing else. All you can do is lie still, breathe evenly, and wait. As Jesse knots his fingers in the hem of your (her) shirt, as your (her) body warms and fills its shape, you lose yourself in the current moment and allow her to come back to him. Just for a little while.


End file.
